Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Zach Sun:
I will be. Soon.
Romeo Costa:
Are you for real?
Ollie vB:
From having NO love life to becoming the Bella to Cinderella and Dr. Ulick’s Edward and Jacob.
Ollie vB:
Bravo, @ZachSun. Bravo.
Zach Sun:
Dr. Ulick?
Romeo Costa:
Eileen Ulick. [Unamused Face Emoji]
Ollie vB:
[Tongue Emoji]
Ollie vB:
Love triangle is my favorite trope, btw.
Romeo Costa:
You don’t read.
Ollie vB:
What does reading have to do with anything? I’m talking about porn.
Ollie vB:
Just Google two nurses one cop. Thank me later.
Ollie vB:
But make sure you do it through your iPhone to avoid viruses.
Romeo Costa:
For the millionth time, iPhones are not immune to viruses.
Ollie vB:
Aww, shucks.
Ollie vB:
That explains that $2M charge to Anita Hanjaab.
Zach Sun:
There’s no love involved with either of them.
Ollie vB:
Keep telling yourself that while you break every single rule you’ve ever had for Cinderella.
The first sign that I needed to pause the brakes on the trainwreck that was my situationship with Farrow Ballantine came from Natalie, of all people.
She cornered me in the conservatory, where I sat with six laptops open, trying and failing to track multiple markets on the tiny 12-inch screens. “Did something happen to your office?”
Yeah. Farrow’s in it.
I wasn’t avoiding her.
On the contrary, she’d spent the past three days since the sauna incident dodging me every time I rounded a corner.
Occasionally, she’d dip into my office and revisit our Go game, moving a stone here or there, but only when I wasn’t inside. Which, pathetically, forced me to set up camp in the opposite wing of the manor.
I didn’t look up from the screens. “Is there a reason you’re here?”
“Just concerned.”
You and me both.
Since when did I rearrange my life to suit the needs of another person that wasn’t blood related to me?
Better yet, since when did Farrow Ballantine become someone whose thoughts, actions, and emotions I considered at all?
I shot up from the chair, startling Natalie when it pelted across the room. Her jaw almost dislodged itself after I began pacing the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
I was going to erupt.
Three days.
Three fucking days.
Three days since Farrow confronted me in the sauna, forcing me to question my own sanity.
Three days since I felt her cum drip on my fingers and kneaded her ass—her flesh—without coiling or vomiting.
Three days since the tight walls of her wet pussy caged the tip of my cock inside them, squeezing it for dear life.
What would fucking her bareback feel like?
That very question consumed my days and devoured my nights.
I was a man obsessed, and I couldn’t focus on anything other than relishing the feel of her.
Suddenly, I couldn’t remember why or when I found human skin appalling. I wanted hers on mine twenty-four seven.
Which brought me to my next problem.
Farrow showed no signs of warming up the cold shoulder she’d given me since that day. I craved any sign of life from her. Any proof that she wanted my touch as much as I wanted hers.
And so, I found myself taking lengthy trips in my orchid garden, meditating four times a day instead of three, and roaming the hallways of my mansion like a haunted ghost, hunting for signs of her.
She was everywhere, and yet, nowhere at all.
In the random appetizer on my lunch tray that hadn’t changed for seventeen years.
In the extra sheet on my bed beneath the comforter when the temperatures dropped with the season change.
And in my office surveillance feeds, which I checked to make sure that she’d actually come to make her Go move.
Astonishingly, she completed her job to my satisfaction.
I’d gone through every maid in the DMV to the point where I dumped ludicrous investments into robotic cleaning equipment in hopes I never had to deal with human incompetence again.
But under Farrow’s care, the manor never looked better.
The problem? She moved things around—yet again, forcing change on me.
She put flowers in vases. Shifted furniture from one place to another. Drew back all the curtains to let natural light flood in.
I should’ve found it silly that she took pride in making my house a home. That she grinned to herself when she rearranged a fruit bowl on one of my kitchen islands or tilted a painting to the perfect angle.
She seemed completely content avoiding me, while I was on the verge of clawing my own skin off. Why weren’t we talking? Teasing each other? Touching each other?
I was like a baby who had just figured out how to walk.
I wanted to do it all the time. Touch her hair. Her cheeks. Her tits. Her pussy.
On the fourth day of our radio silence, I finally cornered her.
She was in my garden, of all places, eviscerating a white rose bush to fill my six-figure art vases.
I figured she wouldn’t take it well if I told her those roses shouldn’t be placed in urns that were essentially historical treasures, some over 600 years old. The exposure to moisture alone would eviscerate their value.